The Psychological Breakdown
The Day I Lost My Mind
The Walk Out
A numb state of preservation carried me out of the office for the short commute home. Survival instinct was running the show, my mind racing, raging, while I tried to mask my exit with a flat, blank face.
Back at my sanctuary, the place I thought would bring solace, my nervous system was on fire. Hidden away, pumped full of cortisol, the tears were relentless. I paced, panicked, my thoughts trapped in a hall of mirrors.
How could I be feeling like this? Nothing had really happened. No one had died. I’d simply read an email, for god’s sake.
I wasn’t the tough, stoic individual I’d always tried to be. I was broken. And none of it made sense. My thoughts flew around like a panicked bird, flapping, confused, no way out.
What Tipped the Scales?
The build-up had finally broken with a few simple HR emails. Phrases like “disciplinary action” and “without prejudice” hollowed me out. For the first time in my life, I was on the wrong side of the fence. It was a gut punch.
To the average person, this probably sounds overdramatic. But what I would come to learn later was that my brain processes things differently. I was emotionally dysregulated. My body’s response was visceral, unstoppable.
As far as I was concerned, it was all over. The mask had slipped. The jig was up.
I’d have to disappear completely. The shame of failing at the game of being human was too much to bear.
At Home
My mind swung toward irreversible coping mechanisms. Was I staring down the barrel of psychosis? A rare flash of clarity cut through. Pick up the phone. Call the surgery. Try to compose yourself.
“I’m sorry, we have no appointments today. We can schedule one in a few days’ time.”
My voice broke under the weight of desperation, pleading, and they slotted me in at the close of business.
I just had to hold on. Somehow get through the next few hours and pull myself together enough to face the outside world.
The Wait
A handful of hours to purge the crazy. My thoughts skittered, regurgitating every past mistake, every life decision, chewing over failure and hopelessness. I knew I was catastrophising, turning every small fault into proof of a wasted life.
What was the point of any of it? Careers, relationships, interests. None of them would ever be enough. My inner child was on the rampage.
The Appointment
Eternity in the waiting room. Bloodshot eyes. Heart racing. I wanted to dissolve. I flipped into white-knuckle pragmatism. Mask on, survive this, just get called in, get signed off, get home, calm down.
I thought about the appointments over the last few months. I’d been in a bad way for a while.
One visit stays with me. Sitting there, helplessly welling up from the inside, floodgates locked with everything I had. Fogged, lost. A little girl wriggled upside down on a chair, full of life, waiting patiently with her mum. Her mum, calm, instinctive, nurturing like a quiet savant. Feeling sorry for myself that I’d missed the parenthood turning, I closed my eyes and tried to get a grip. Then I heard a small voice:
“Mummy, why is that man sleeping?”
A wry smile crept across my face. This man’s trying not to cry.
On that day, I’d meant to ask for antidepressants. I needed them. But the mask held tight. When the doctor asked, “Anything else I can help you with?” I thought, how long have you got?
And said: “No, thanks.”
Back to now. The doctor called my name. I composed myself, barely stepping into the office when the dreaded “How can I help?” landed. The door closed behind me and I crumbled all over again. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Just drowning in misery.
The first words I could manage were telling.
“Sorry… I know I’ve only got ten minutes...”
She gave a small, furrowed smile.
“It’s okay. You’re my last patient. Take as long as you need.”
If you’ve ever been in this place, you’ll know. That sort of kindness is murder when you’re holding yourself together with hate. Empathy begets empathy.
I choked through a laundry list of struggles that had led me here.
Prescription in hand, I made straight for the pharmacy. Back home, relief drained away. It would take six weeks to kick in at least. A long road lay ahead.
And day one wasn’t over yet. My partner was due home soon. The big reveal. The emotional repeat.
Conversations
I know you’re not meant to write when you’re angry. But my inbox was pulsing.
HR. What a job. No, thank you.
A rare window of composure saw me draft an apologetic email. I wouldn’t be back for a couple of weeks. Damage control was already underway on their end, with an HR consultant stepping in, trying to corner me for a meeting.
If in doubt, don’t talk it out.
I refused to abide, especially while signed off with anxiety and depression. Bought myself a few days’ grace. Not before some back-and-forth escalations, mind you. When my attempt at a clean severance was ignored, years of disgruntled fodder poured out into my replies. All the reasons. All the frustrations.
Honey, I’m Home
My self-sabotaging thoughts were fractalling out until every problem, every flaw, needed solving at once.
So when your partner comes home, and you’re broken, and they ask what’s happened, you let it all fly. Every dark, cruel thought.
I’m a terrible person. I want nothing to do with anyone. I don’t want to live here. I don’t want to go home. I want to disappear. Leave it all behind.
That does not make for a good evening. For either of you.
The shitshow was spiralling. Fast.
I couldn’t decide what was more cowardly. Running or staying?
Was I burning bridges to force a new path?
Or just to make sure I stayed stranded?
Where was it heading?
A lot of turmoil. Therapy began, and with it came the slow, jarring uncovering of things I had never seen clearly before. What had felt like failure and collapse was, in truth, something deeper. The long, silent burnout of an undiagnosed autistic life.
Therapy would bring the unsettling unpacking of a lifetime of emotional baggage, a way of thinking that had corrupted my soul, unrealised until now.
But once the door opened, I couldn’t close it again.
